Suddenly, the little girl screamed, "Please help my mommy. Please."

The words pierced Joe's heart and stopped him in his tracks. He stood for a moment, eyes glistening, shook his head, and took off again.

"Please, mister."

He stopped once more, conflict crackling in his mind like electricity. He drained the pint and let the bottle drop. With a dull clink it bounced on the asphalt, then lay still. He turned around. The little girl held her hand out toward him. He hesitated, trembling, for a few seconds, then found himself walking toward her.

She looked up at him, her eyes pleading and lip quivering. "My mommy's hurt. Please help her."

Joe knelt down and felt for a pulse. It was as he feared.

"I'm sorry. Your . . . your mother . . . your mother is . . . dead."

She rushed into his arms. He held her as she sobbed, stroking her red, curly hair and whispering, "There, there."

In a little while, he asked, "What's your name, honey?"

She looked at him, her big brown eyes brimming with tears. "Rose Elizabeth Franklin. My mommy calls me Rosie."

"How old are you?"

"Five." She looked down at the body. "Has she gone to heaven?"

"Yes. Yes, she has. She's with the angels right now . . . Was that man, the man who shot your mother, was he-"

"He was my father. He's mad at us."

Just then red and blue lights flashed into the alley.

"He's a policeman."

Joe picked her up and ran, ignoring the pain.

"Where are we going?" Rosie whispered.

"Somewhere safe."